


Fourth time’s the charm

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dumbasses, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Romance, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: It takes them four tries and a few thousand years to finally admit how they feel about each other. And act on it.





	Fourth time’s the charm

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I’ve got nothing. I just had to write this. Pure, self-indulgent fandom trash. I’m weak. Cheers.

The first time it happens, they’re eating oysters at Petronius’.

After some time spent chatting about human food and habits, Crowley lifts his right eyebrow, tilts his head in Aziraphale’s direction and asks, “So, what _else_ have you been trying?”

Of course, he’s temporarily forgotten Aziraphale’s not one of his lot. A demon would have understood right away what he was hinting at. Aziraphale doesn’t. He smiles wide, his eyes sparkling with joy, and starts his list.

“Oh, you know, these Romans do not mess around when it comes to food! It’s all quite good. You see, just the other day, I had these— these cakes, sort of? They’re very small, and dark, and you wouldn’t be tempted to try them, but I can assure you—”

He goes on, but Crowley’s not listening. He’s _watching_ , though. He’s watching the angel being as taken with this world as he is. He knows why they get along – he’s known for quite some time. From the literal beginning of time, it’s been him and Aziraphale. No one else – no demon or angel – can understand them. Nobody else knows what’s so precious about Earth and humans, or why spending time in their midst is not actually all that bad. It’s good, great even.

So, of course, as soon as the angel has someone to talk to about good food, someone who can understand how inane and yet blissful it is to dive into the humans’ most delicious creations, he erupts with joy and talks non-stop about the last two thousand years he spent on the planet.

Crowley lets him go on for a bit. Aziraphale’s speech stumbles, it starts and stops, he stutters at times, and the more excited he gets the more he’s hard to follow. It’s kind of cute.

“That’s not what I was asking.” Crowley interjects when Aziraphale stops in between descriptions of meals. “I was talking about— you know, _other_ earthly pleasures.”

Aziraphale blinks, blissfully unaware still. “Well, I do also like sleeping every so often.”

Behind his dark glasses, Crowley squints. What a dumbhead.

“And also alcohol, occasionally, of course! And uhm, what else… ah! Have you ever had your hair cut at Fulvius’? He has this extremely refreshing ointment that he puts on your face afterwards, and it’s truly great! He says it’s to reduce the itching of the skin, and of course my skin doesn’t itch, but—”

Aziraphale stops mid-sentence as he looks at Crowley’s furrowed brow. He realizes now he isn’t being asked about alcohol or barbers, clearly. But what else is there?

Crowley’s glasses slide down his nose a bit. It’s when Aziraphale can look into the demon’s yellow eyes that the penny finally drops.

“Oh! Surely you don’t mean—”

“Why not?” Crowley shrugs. “It is not any different than soiling your human body with food and alcohol and weird ointments from some barber.”

“Crowley, I just— I don’t— it’s not—”

“That’s alright, that’s alright.” He decides to put Aziraphale out of his misery by talking over his babbling. “Forget I asked.”

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale does not, however, forget he asked.

As with everything, he dwells over it. He can’t put the thought down until he’s settled the matter. It keeps popping up in his mind every so often, _especially_ when he’s eating something particularly good, or drinking a peculiar type of alcohol, or trying some other new thing that brings him joy.

He thinks about it when his (completely superfluous) bed feels particularly soft, when he scratches his back (that does not need to be scratched, but feels _so_ good), when he’s basking in the sun on a particularly cold morning.

And it’s not that Crowley’s wrong, per se. _It_ is, after all, an earthly pleasure, on par with eating and drinking and scratching a non-existent itch. Even his “side” does not recognize it as a sin, under certain circumstances.

And still, he can’t seem to wrap his head around it. It just seems so wrong, to accost a human and… and ask to do something like that. No, no, how could he?

Has Crowley…?

Oh, Aziraphale must imagine he has. He must have. He’s a demon, he tempts people. There are many kinds of temptations, and some of the most powerful are related to the subject at hand. As he walks through the streets, lost in his own thoughts, Aziraphale’s suddenly feels like everyone’s looking at him, even though he knows he’s made himself inconspicuous. But if they could see what he’s thinking!

He sees two young lovers chatting at the side of road, and wonders if Crowley would go and sweet talk the girl or the boy to get them away from one another and lead them astray.

Or maybe he wouldn’t do that? Crowley does seem more indifferent rather than downright _evil_ , doesn’t he? And it worries Aziraphale a lot, because it blurs the line between good or bad. That Line is _oh so important_ to him.

At any rate, Crowley’s not rotten to his core, that’s a fact. He’s just… a bit misguided.

So maybe, if he has tried _that_ , he’s done it with whomever, just to see what all the fuss is about.

Somehow, the thought does not make Aziraphale feel any better.

 

* * *

 

The second time it happens, they’re on the outskirts of in Paris, and they’re having lunch, away from all the ruckus of the Revolution.

Aziraphale has pondered the question for a good thousand years, at this point. So, once they’re done eating, Aziraphale offers to take him on a private tour of the Palace of Versailles, now momentarily devoid of inhabitants.

Crowley accepts, in no small part because Aziraphale has been more skittish than usual, so he knows something’s going on.

And he doesn’t mind, really, spending time with him. To be completely honest, he seeks him out every so often. The angels has done nothing but grow on him, much to the demon’s chagrin, since the day they met.

Crowley remembers it as if it was yesterday: Aziraphale nervously explaining he’d given away his flaming sword, in open defiance of God herself. That’s exactly the kind of action you need to take if you’re after a demon’s heart. He also remembers stepping closer as it started to rain, sure the angel would let him under his wing and shield him – and he had.

So that was that. He was done for after that.

They talk about this and that on the way there, mostly about their future assignments, how to be as efficient as possible, how to split the work, how to not get in one another’s way. But they also talk about other stuff. Aziraphale’s newfound love for gardening, for example. Crowley does not understand plants, or flowers for that matter, and can’t imagine taking care of one (or more), but Aziraphale’s enthusiasm about them is a bit contagious.

“I would like to try and be a gardener, at some point.” Aziraphale declares joyfully.

“Don’t let your employer hear that then.” Crowley replies, but Aziraphale has learned that that deadpan expression on the demon’s face means he’s not making fun of him; he’s just making a joke.

When they get there (and, of course, Aziraphale knows a man on the inside, that lets them in a for a few coins) the angel waits until they’re completely alone to ask the question that’s been troubling him for the last millennia.

“Crowley, do you by any chance remember the time we had oysters at Petronius’?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Well…” Aziraphale stares at his feet, even though the two of them are smack dab in the middle of a beautiful path, with flowers for miles on either side in every colour of the rainbow. “You asked me a question back then, and I’ve been pondering it.”

Crowley can’t help but raise both eyebrows. “Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?”

“ _Listen_...” Aziraphale’s voice comes on stronger than he intended. “It was not an easy question.”

“And now that you’ve been marinating in it for so long, what’s your answer?”

“That I have not. I’ve never even considered it until you brought it up, to be quite honest.”

“Well, it’s no big deal.” Crowley shrugs. “Unless you make it into one.”

“That’s not— that was not— it’s not what I’m doing.” Except it is what he’s doing, and he knows: he’s been thinking this over for a thousand years and just admitted he has, bringing it up again with Crowley. “I just… I don’t think it would be fair. To humans. There’s always strings attached to that kind of thing and all that... it is my duty to be kind and considerate to all living beings.”

“Unless ordered otherwise.”

“Crowley, for the millionth time, the plans of God are—”

He’s cut off by the demon’s long fingers grabbing his chin, pulling him slightly forward and into the most awkward kiss the world has ever seen.

It’s not pleasant. It’s quite rough, actually, in no small part because Aziraphale goes stiff as a board, but also because Crowley has no grace.

“I couldn’t hear _that_ word one more time.” Crowley says as they part. “See? No big deal.”

Aziraphale wants to lean against something but there’s nothing around him. Just beautifully useless flowers and the diabolically useless _idiot_ – because that’s what he is – in front of him, looking at him like they’re just discussing the weather.

“I must— I have a— I have to go now.”

As he walks off in whatever direction, Crowley looks pointedly at the angel’s back. Too much, wasn’t it? He could have been more subtle, more delicate. But that’s not in his nature.

It makes sense to him, in a very logical way, that they would be doing this. Humans often superimpose a connection to one another with a physical representation of it. And Crowley is not sure about many things, and neither does he care to know, but he knows that there’s a connection between him and Aziraphale, and cares about it. He hates that he cares, but that doesn’t change the fact that he does.

They are, in a sense, a team. Because they’re the only creatures of their kind who love this Earth, who made it their home.

Either way – Crowley does the math in his mind as he turns his back and walks in the other direction – if it took Aziraphale a thousand years to admit he wanted to try something physical but was scared to do so, it might take him at least three times that to get over that kiss and clumsily ask for more.

That’s the thing with Aziraphale. As the demon has learned, the angel never wants to get his hands dirty. He’s a bit of an asshole, in that sense. He would rather ask, demand, manipulate and persuade than take responsibility for anything unpleasant. Crowley doesn’t mind doing the dirty work for him, really, but where’s the line between “he wants me to do this, because he’s too prickly to take initiative himself” and “he’s not ready for this”? Hard to tell.

Angels don’t exactly come with a user manual.

 

* * *

 

The third time it happens, Crowley doesn’t see it coming.

They run into each other again in New York in 1804. Crowley’s assignment is to see what he can do to weaken the newly born United States. The dust of the Revolutionary War has settled, so now is the time to plant the seed of distrust and disorder.

As soon as he got off the ship, at dawn, he reached out so see if his friend was in town, and sensed him immediately. So, once he’s done the bare minimum to keep his superiors happy, he goes to him – to find him, of course, in one of the best inns in town. He sees Aziraphale through the glass, but does not enter.

Aziraphale sees him, but doesn’t wave. Crowley stares at him for a moment and turns away, walks to the tavern just across the street. Screw the angel, he knows he’s there, he can sense where he is, let him come and find him if he wants company.

He’s ordered his third beer when, much to his surprise, Aziraphale steps in and sits down across from him.

“Can I have a word with you?”

Crowley leans back against his seat. “Maybe even two if I’m in a good mood.”

“Not here, though.” Aziraphale looks around him. “Too many people.”

“Sure, where to?”

“I have a room.”

Crowley lifts both eyebrows, but says nothing. Is this what he thinks it is? He can’t even tell anymore.

He follows him without a word.

Of course, Aziraphale has a nice room. A very nice room. With a fireplace and all that. It even looks clean.

“I have to ask you a favour.” The angel says, once the door is closed behind them and they’re all alone.

“Kind of dangerous to bring me here. You could’ve asked me in the middle of a crowd as usual.”

“The nature of the favour requires these… conditions.”

Crowley shrugs. “I’m listening.”

“Well…” Aziraphale adjust his jacket and doesn’t look at him. “Could you do it properly?”

Crowley tilts his head to the side. “Do what properly?”

“What you did the last time we saw each other.”

“At Versailles?”

“At Versailles.”

There’s a long, pointed pause. “I mean, sure.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale stands perfectly still and rigid, looking at the wall to his right. Crowley doesn’t move.

“What the heaven do you think you’re doing?” he asks, after a few seconds.

“I… you said yes, so…”

“Yes, but it doesn’t work like that.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that this is not a restaurant, where you sit down and order. It’s not that mechanical.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale takes a step back. “Then, I suppose… you should tell me what to do.”

“I swear to God, angel, I’ve never seen someone as awkward as you in all these years on Earth.”

“She doesn’t like to be sworn upon.”

“What?”

“Never mind. So, uh, what do you suggest?”

Crowley sits on his bed, gesturing for him to do the same. “Sit.”

Aziraphale obeys, not without a certain hesitation. After all, obeying is what he does, even when he’s uncertain.

“So,” Crowley leans back a bit, propping himself up with his hands against the bed. “Done anything interesting the last ten years?”

“N-not quite, no. A few small miracles, nothing out of the ordinary. Surely nothing interesting.”

“So you’ve just been thinking about Versailles for ten years. Is that what kept you busy?”

Aziraphale blushes and stares at his knees. Crowley puts a hand on his thigh. Aziraphale feels his face burning.

“Nothing wrong with that, you know?” the demon tries to reassure him. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

“Really…?”

“Sure, sure.” Aziraphale’s hands are in his lap, and Crowley’s finger slide up his leg to touch them lightly. They’re burning up. “You’ve been a nervous wreck since the day I’ve known you, but listen— you can relax now. There’s nobody but us. If they—” and he looks up, then down “—if either of them had seen us come here, they would have already burst in, right?”

“I suppose so, yes…”

“So try and breathe every now and again, your human body will appreciate it.”

A soft laugh escapes from Aziraphale’s tightly pressed lips. He finally gathers the strength to look at his friend.

Crowley takes his glasses off in one smooth motion, setting them beside him onto the bed. He leans in close, but waits a few moments. He feels like if he’s not careful enough, the burning angel beside him might evaporate in a puff of smoke. Ever so slowly, he finishes closing the distance between them, and kisses him.

This time it’s different. Aziraphale’s not so stiff, Crowley’s not that rough. They’ve already adjusted to one another’s speed a little bit.

At any rate, the angel was right: Crowley has done this before. Out of curiosity, out of convenience sometimes. It left him quite indifferent. He could take it or leave it.

Not this time though – _obviously_. This time he’s trying his best to hold back, but then a tiny noise escapes the angel’s mouth and it’s all over, he feels it too, that weird kind of burning in his body. He grabs his face with both hands and kisses him deeply.

He pushes him down to the bed, his fingers frantically sliding down his face, down his neck, to his chest, looking for buttons to unbutton. He manages to win over just one before he’s stopped.

“Wait—! Wait.”

With an extremely frustrated groan, Crowley pulls himself together, and back up. Aziraphale jumps off the bed.

“That would be quite enough.” His hair is all over the place, and he’s short for breath. His face is red all over, and his clothes, usually perfect, are in disarray. “Thank you for doing what I asked you to.”

Crowley puts his glasses back on, and considers him with a long look, saying nothing.

“You can go now. I imagine you have a long day of tempting ahead of you.”

“Are you sure? You’re fine?”

“Yes, yes. You have done exactly what I asked you, and that’s enough.”

Crowley would like to point out Aziraphale’s physical form is showing _very clearly_ that it is not enough, right between his legs. That’s the thing about human bodies; they’re not subtle. Especially the male form. Nothing subtle about it. However, he decides against it. If he comments about it, Aziraphale might take another thousand years to process that.

“Well, then.” He’s frustrated, but he smiles. He smiles because he’s had confirmation of something he’s known all along. He’s not too sure Aziraphale is on the same page, but that’s alright. He’ll get there at some point. “See you around, angel.”

 

* * *

 

Several things have to happen before they get anywhere.

Towards the middle of the nineteenth century, Crowley has adjusted to their new “situation”. He knows that, if someone from down there were to know about what the two of them are doing, it wouldn’t just be over for him. He’d be tortured, for all eternity, with the worst means Hell can conjure. And Hell’s pretty good at that kind of stuff.

That’s why he asks Aziraphale for holy water, in St James’s Park. He might get a pass if they were having sex, he might even be considered a hero for corrupting an angel, but they aren’t having sex. They aren’t having sex, and yet there’s no silencing the force that pulls him towards Aziraphale. The angel feels like home, one he was cast away from long ago and had almost forgotten. _That’s_ what would get him in the biggest possible troubles.

He’s fine with it, though, personally. After you’ve fallen from Heaven, you accept most things with a certain aplomb. If one day he woke up to have just one leg, he’d hop around on the other. That’s life. So, while he’s not happy with it, he’s not tortured about the feeling he harbours where his heart would be if he had one. That’s just how it is now.

But not only does Aziraphale reject his request for holy water, he also stays angry with him for quite some time. That’s why Crowley keeps tabs on him, sees him getting involved with the humans, and follows him into the church at the West End of London, during World War Two. That’s why he rescues him (again), and not just that – he also saves his precious, precious books.

Something in Aziraphale’s brain finally, _finally_ clicks when he gets handed the bag, intact, with the books inside. He feels a love that he cannot repress anymore – even though he really, really should. He can’t, however. It’s ballooned inside his chest and he can’t help himself, he’s filled with it. It’s overflowing. He’s pretty sure it’s visible from the outside but, mercifully, Crowley walks away quickly.

Oh God, if only his superiors knew. They might cast him down to Hell along with Crowley.

It’s a good ten years later that Aziraphale realizes: what would happen to Crowley if _his_ superiors found out an angel loves him? Could it be… the reason why he wanted the holy water?

When he hears that his favourite demon is planning a heist in a church, in a sense, he’s happy. If Crowley is still after the holy water, it means he still likes him. He remembers that morning in New York, when Crowley pushed him down on the bed. He feels his cheeks and ears burn just remembering it. It was too much, too fast. Not just physically speaking – Crowley was so quick to forsake his side and betray them, just to kiss him. Risking everything. There was no hesitation there, while it’s taking Aziraphale thousands of years to come to terms with it. Now, he feels like it’s all snowballing. After Versailles, they’ve been falling together, faster and faster, and there’s no stopping it.

The apocalypse momentarily shifts the focus away from their feelings for one another and onto navigating the difficult process of saving the world. And yet, their “friendship” becomes the driving force behind everything they do. Crowley literally _stops time_ with a desperate growl when Aziraphale threatens to never talk to him again. And that buys them enough time to come up with a plan.

The drive back from Tadfield to London, on the bus, is a quiet one. Aziraphale is lost in his own thoughts, and Crowley doesn’t disturb him.

Without discussing it any further, they both get off when the bus stops right in front of Crowley’s apartment building. Once inside, Aziraphale sits on Crowley’s chair as Crowley leans against the table, searching the angel’s face for answers.

“Look, I’m just going to ask. What now?”

“I think I have an idea. But it’s… risky.”

“I’m in.” Crowley gives him a half-smile, but Aziraphale’s eyes are darting around nervously.

“We’d have to— what Agnes said; _choose your faces wisely, for you’ll be playing with fire_. I think she meant literally.”

“Literally how?”

“Well, here’s the thing. If I’m going to be playing with fire, and my side wants to punish me, the fire I’m going to be playing with will definitely be hellfire, won’t it?”

Crowley flinches at the thought, but nods. He remembers walking into Aziraphale’s burning library, thinking the worst had already happened. He was absolutely distraught. He tried to tell Aziraphale – he thought he’d lost his best friend. Really, the fact he’s still calling this relationship a _friendship_ at all is a favour to the angel, because Crowley knows he’d get too squirmish if he called it anything but that.

“And we already know what would completely annihilate you. Holy water. However… when I inhabited the woman’s body, I was able to protect her just like I would have had with the body Heaven issued me.”

“So what?”

“So this is going to sound crazy, but— what if we switched? What if I took your body, and you took mine?”

Crowley has to force himself to stay focused on the substance of what the angel is saying, and pretend not to notice the wording of his proposal.

“So that holy water couldn’t hurt my body, and hellfire couldn’t hurt yours? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes! Precisely.”

Crowley thinks it over for a second. He has no idea whether it will work. But no better strategy comes to mind, and he trusts Aziraphale to be the smart one of the team. He extends his hand for the angel to take.

A moment later, the body of Crowley is sitting on the chair, and the body of Aziraphale is looking down at him.

“This will take some getting used to.” Crowley, inside Aziraphale’s body, says. This body is round where his is angular, soft where his is lean. Not to mention, it smells a lot like Aziraphale (and of course it would).

“We have the whole night to work out the details. Tomorrow morning, you’ll go to my library – what’s left of it. That’s where they’ll most likely look for me. I’ll stay here, and we’ll meet at St James’s Park around noon, if nothing else happens in the meantime. Okay?”

It’s a very long night for them both, sharing details of their respective headquarters and colleagues. And trying, really truly trying, not to focus too much on the bodies they momentarily inhabit more than they have to.

 

* * *

 

So, the fourth time it happens, a lot has changed. The world has been saved, and the both of them too. They’re back in their respective bodies, and they are _free_.

The fourth time the topic of sex is brought up between them; it’s a miraculously normal, crisp weekday morning. They’ve spent the day before celebrating, and Aziraphale stayed over once again. Just like humans, they decided to go out for drinks in the evening, and then sleep a few hours. It was so freeing, at last, to be able to do whatever they wanted to, without having to hide.

When the angel wakes up on Crowley’s couch he’s sober, and he’s just _so happy_. And maybe it’s the sun filtering through the windows, maybe it’s the relief he feels cursing through his physical form, maybe it’s all the events of the last few days – but he’s downright giddy, and can’t keep it in any longer.

He finds Crowley cooking (cooking, of all things!) and doing a terrible job at it. Aziraphale turns off the heat and just as Crowley is in the middle of asking him what the heaven he thinks he’s doing, the angel grabs him by the collar of his shirt and kisses him.

Crowley’s knees go weak for a moment; he has to hold himself up with a hand against the kitchen counter while the other reaches for Aziraphale’s soft hair. He feels the angel smile into the kiss.

Again, it ignites something in Crowley. He wants him. So much. Wants to touch him, to feel him. But he won’t scare him away, not again, not this time. He puts his hands up as if he’s being held at gunpoint. Aziraphale reaches up, takes the demon’s hands into his own, and guides them to his face. And that’s it. The snowball has finally triggered an avalanche.

They take off their clothes inordinately, bite and kiss each other (to be fair, one of them does all the biting), roll over on the floor. It’s uncomfortable, messy, and painful at times even – but holy shit, they do not care. Aziraphale’s brain is momentarily disconnected; otherwise he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to reach, shamelessly, for the demon’s skin, every inch of it.

Crowley feels like he’s been holding his breath for thousands of years and can finally breathe. He breathes him in, the smell of his hair, of the skin in the crook of his neck, of his lips.

Aziraphale can’t help but cover his face with both hands as he feels the demon’s mouth trailing down his chest. Suffice to say that nothing, absolutely _nothing_ he’s ever tried on Earth is on par with this. He dares to look down. The smile Crowley, cheek against his bare hip now, flashes him before licking his lips is positively _obscene_. He finds himself so completely helpless, in the best possible way.

He can’t know that Crowley has not tried anything such as this either, ever, in Heaven or Hell or Earth. He’s – as he likes to think of himself – _well travelled_. But he’s never seen anything as beautiful as this, as the face the angel makes when he slides his tongue over his cock, and he’s never heard anything he’s liked best than the sound Aziraphale makes as he comes into his mouth.

It doesn’t take them long, maybe because it has taken them too damn long to get this far. It’s a ten minutes affair, yet it lasts an eternity for them. Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s hands and shows him exactly what to do, what he likes, how to touch him. He still has his fingers on the angel’s when, whispering profanities in his ear, he makes a mess all over their joined hands, as well as Aziraphale’s hip and thigh.

This time, when Crowley kisses him, Aziraphale is not scared. And Crowley is not aggressive, but satisfied.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, he takes the angel’s hand and leads him into the shower, where he takes care of him. Aziraphale almost can’t believe his eyes, and yet he can – Crowley has been taking care of him, in a much wider sense, for so much time. So what if now he’s rubbing his back with soap? That’s such a small thing compared to everything else.

And it’s such a human thing to do. They don’t need to take a shower, they could magic themselves clean. That’s what makes this so special.

A few hours later, as they sit on the couch and Aziraphale is doing crossword with Crowley’s head in his lap, the demon looks up at him, and the angel smiles wide. It takes Crowley’s breath away. It’s taken so long. He’s been pining after him for so much time.

He can’t help but say it out loud.

“You do like me.”

The answer is infused with so much love that it can’t be put into words. It’s too great, it’s _ineffable_.

“I _do_.”


End file.
